Above the stars, beyond time, in a plane where only concept had gravity, the surviving Five Thrones of Divinity stirred for the first time in seven ages.
They gathered in the Hall of Consonance, where thought was substance and law was breath. Here, the ancient gods who survived the Nameless War kept vigil over what remained of the Realms. Each sat upon their Tower-Linked Thrones—each a master of one of the Forbidden Towers, now long-lost to the Veil.
They had not convened in a thousand years.
But prophecy had forced their hand.
And it had whispered a name none dared write.
Vareth'alun.
Myrrhael the Testament
The Warden-God of Binding and Word spoke first, his voice forming into law as he did:
"It is time. The Veil has bled into the Waking. The Nameless Core stirs."
"The boy—Solan Maelvaran—has broken a Seal without knowledge. He is the bearer of a True Name unsanctioned by the Celestial Lattice."
He stood alone. His twelve wings of scripture folded behind his back, sealed by divine brands. His gaze bore the burden of one who remembered the War too well.
"I move for full Invocation. We reenter the Waking Realm."
Virestra, Empress of Ash and Mercy
She rose second. Crown of molten memory, eyes of flame and frost. Her voice bore both warmth and judgment.
"And what then, Myrrhael? Smite the boy? Burn Eidralune? Break prophecy again, as we did when the Fifth Tower fell?"
The flames around her flickered with buried grief.
"You forget. We birthed the Labyrinth when we sundered fate. We broke the Chorus. Not the mortals."
She glanced toward a vacant throne once held by Thal-Naruun, the God of Unspoken Time—a Throne still smoldering with divine absence.
"And I remember the price we paid."
Althros the Dream-Tyrant
He lounged upon his throne of void-glass and black sapphire, smiling with too many teeth.
"I say let it burn."
"The prophecy runs on rails we no longer built. What care have I if Solan tears the world apart? At least then we'll be free of this charade of stewardship."
He gestured lazily toward the lower realms—visible below the Hall like a glass sphere suspended by trembling cords.
"Let the Abyss reclaim what was stolen. Let the Nameless Core sing. We wrote silence into the world and thought it would last."
He chuckled.
"But the song is returning."
Nymiriel, Weaver of Threads
The youngest of the gods, her eyes were starlit looms, eternally weaving strands of cause and fate. She was silent until now, her face pale and unreadable.
"The Labyrinth has never served only one voice."
"The girl born of silence—the one following Solan—she is not part of the original Design."
"And yet, she has Anchored the system."
This startled even Myrrhael. Virestra straightened. Althros simply grinned wider.
"Impossible," murmured the Warden-God.
"I watched the scripts. I bound the chains. The system was ours—its echoes, our final tether to mortal law."
"If the Anchor has shifted…"
"Then the system has broken free," finished Nymiriel. "It no longer obeys us. Perhaps… it never did."
The Fifth Throne — Empty
All turned as wind stirred in the Hall. A soundless gust, thick with dust and forgotten names.
The Fifth Throne, masterless since the Divine War, flickered.
A symbol appeared in its center—one not seen since the age of annihilation.
ᚨ — The First Rune. Origin of Voice.
The hall darkened.
For a heartbeat, they all felt a presence not divine—but deeper. Older.
Not of gods.
But of the Labyrinth itself.
And through the throne echoed a message—delivered not in words, but in certainty:
"The boy does not carry prophecy."
"He writes it."